


1001 Thedasian Nights

by Defira



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: 1001 Arabian Nights, Arabian Nights - Freeform, Crossover, Gen, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in captivity, what's a storyteller to do but weave an elaborate web of tall tales and sugared lies for the amusement of their new masters? Especially a master wordsmith like Varric Tethras, or a sweetly deceptive songbird like Sister Leliana...</p><p>Dragon Age meets the Arabian Nights in an ongoing mix of drabbles and art, a clash of cultures and stories and familiar characters in perhaps a not quite expected setting. </p><p>Many thanks to the artists who have contributed to this madness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Grand Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Art by Cheesiestart.tumblr.com

It was never a good idea for professional liars to spend so much time alone together.

But on sultry nights when the sky seemed like lush velvet cast over the air, hanging low and heavy and studded with diamond shards, when the air was warm and thick with spice and incense and sweat and the wine flowed liberally, who was to say what was a good idea and what was not.

After all, finding oneself the prisoner of the Archon himself was never particularly a splendid idea to start with, so all other bad ideas seemed to pale into insignificance beside it.

She had been taken first, too curious and too sure of herself, slipping across the border and into Tevinter with the curse of overconfidence snapping at her heels. It did not take long for her to catch the eye of those in power, and not much longer before she was dragged before the Court of the Archon, defiant to the last.  
He had been taken not long after, a special request from the higher powers- a man with knowledge, it was said, a man with stories. Tales worth more than their weight in gold, if they were to be believed, and the Archon had gold to spare.

Theirs was a prison without bars, an opulent suite in the palace itself, because for the sake of diplomacy they were _honoured guests_ rather than caged songbirds. And through their mutual incarceration they learned a great deal about one another- among them, their love of a good story.

It started simply enough- one would tell the other a tale to pass the time, to buoy the spirits and make their situation seem a little less grim. And then of course the other would reciprocate, spinning out a tale of intrigue and danger and mystery and romance… but of course, it was always just a _little_ bit more dangerous, _slightly_ more mysterious, just a _hint_ more romantic.

A challenge, as it were.

And the wine would flow, and the evening would drag on, and the stories would grow. The heat never died off, and neither did the drama.

_She_ had encountered werewolves in the depths of an ancient forest.

_He_ had dueled an ageless Rock Wraith in the bowels of the earth.

_She_ had entered the Fade itself, the helpless prisoner of a Sloth demon.

_He_ had entered the Fade too, actually, and wasn’t that remarkable since dwarves were supposedly unable to do so?

_She_ had uncovered long lost dwarven thaigs, lost to the war with the darkspawn.

_He_ had uncovered a prehistoric dwarven thaig, older than memory served.

_She_ had travelled with a Qunari.

_He_ had fought a Qunari (on this point they both agreed that perhaps his encounter was a bit too macabre for their contest).

_She_ had known and loved the Hero.

_He_ had known and befriended the Champion.

Days and nights passed by, long and warm and decadent as the tales grew taller and the lies grew bolder. Never quite a victor, never quite a truce, and never an end to the glorious stories…

… although she _did_ hit the dwarf in the face with a pillow more than once.


	2. A convoluted tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by cheesiestart.tumblr.com (thank you Cheesie!)

They were stories within stories.

It was marvellous, really, the way he pulled you in- he’d start off with some innocuous comment, something thrown out in passing about his time with the Champion, about the rot and glamour and magic of the City of Chains. Perhaps it was about the time they stopped to help a beggar in Low Town- or maybe in this version of the tale, with this audience, they didn’t stop, something innocent enough when taken by itself.

But then the beggar they rescued was a shape-shifter, a spirit trapped in mortal form, flightless no more. His was a tale of woe and treachery, of magic and witches and dragons, and although his story was grand indeed he was hard pressed to continue when he was continually interrupted with queries about the _dragon trick_.

“There were ten thousand of us once,” he wept, “and the sky was dark with our numbers. We danced with the magic of the world, and it sang to us as a lover, clad only in veils and moonlight.”

And his tales lasted long into the night, enchanting and engaging and enrapturing them all, of lands long lost and cities sunken into the ground, a world of blood and fire and magic and wonder. Each tale dragged them under more than the last and it was not until the sun stained the eastern sky with dawn that he begged off, his voice dry and his lips cracked from the hours of weaving the tale.

They fell asleep together, scattered across the pillows on the floor, drunk on wine and stories and hence did not notice when the dragon beggar gathered up his things, including the ragged walking stick that had aided his limp. Not so ragged now, it gleamed in the firelight, rich and dark and wicked like ebony; his shadow cast strange shapes on the wall, and his were brighter than the embers in the grate.

The limp was gone when he left, not through a door but through an upstairs window. There were tales from the harbour, fishing boats just pulling into port with the morning catch, of a dark shape that flitted against the grey of the dawn, a flicker of light as if the creeping sun caught on a scale or a tooth. Superstitious nonsense, the folk of Hightown said, with the cheerful light of midday to encourage their sensible natures. Whoever heard of a _dragon_ near Kirkwall?

But that of course never happened, because in _this_ version of the tale they walked right past the beggar, and down to the harbour, where the sea crashed against stone wharfs and rotted pylons, where the sewers spat out the dregs of humanity and the filth that they called home. The air was rank with brine and rancid seaweed, tar and fish and shit. There was no glamour to be had here, for it seemed likely that not all the spices of Seheron could drown out the putrid stench of the harbour itself.

There were no dragon beggars on this day; instead they sought out work, laughing and jesting as they walked straight past the figure in the shadows and down to the wharfs. They came past the cage of the grey giants, silent and stoic, bearing axes larger than Merrill was tall. And while Hawke made the deal with the woman by the barrel, coins changing hands so painstakingly obviously that there were groans and rolled eyes at Hawke’s lack of subtlety. She smiled and winked in response, and threatened to feed the most sarcastic of them to the Arishok.

As they walked, eyes wary as they passed the enclosure of steel and muscle, she spun them the tale of the Qunari who had journeyed so far south that he had encountered the snow and mud of southern Ferelden, the wild giant who had slain entire families and then stood quietly in a cage that was probably no match for him if truth were to be told. He had seemed _friendly_ compared to the horned men who stood silently day after day by the docks, and could you imagine having to fight one of them?

“They name their swords,” she said, “and not their children.”

They laughed uneasily, and continued onwards, because it was a not such a pleasant thought.

“But she fought the Arishok!” cried a voice at the back of the room, the flow of the story broken, “that came to pass! She is the Champion, is she not?”

“Nonsense,” came another, “she sold a woman to them, and walked away without a scratch.”

“Did the Champion really know a dragon?” said a woman sitting near the storyteller’s feet. “A dragon that could talk?”

“No dragon can talk,” said her friend snidely. “They’re brutish creatures, not shape-shifters!”

And then of course eight hours had passed, and the storyteller would smile smugly and the wine would flow anew and debate would rage until someone begged another tale from him, and the stories within stories began again.


	3. The Second Tale of Hawke the Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the Second Tale of Sinbad the Sailor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by cheesiestart.tumblr.com (thank you Cheesie!)

“Now, my dear friend, there is another tale I must tell you, a tale of ferocious beasts and marvellous adventure. One can scarcely expect one without the other, now, can they? I have already told you the tale of my friend Hawke, cherished companion and wise warrior, but in truth we have hardly begun to scratch the surface of the journeys we undertook. There were quests that took us far beyond the walls of home to lands stranger than any fiction, and innumerable escapades that occurred right under our very noses. 

“Now Hawke had gold enough to spare, wealth and riches dragged from the depths themselves, but wealth is not the only treasure to be had. Adventure itself is a grand prize, as is knowledge, and both can be as hard to come by as a dragon’s trove. So when news filtered through the town that there might in fact be a dragon’s trove within a day’s walk of our own homes- well, who were we to pass up such an invitation? Upon this resolve we took to arms, and fair was the sky as we made our way beyond the city gate.

“The road was clear, the land turned bright and lush by the recent rains, and we encountered neither man nor elf. And as we crested the mount, the sounds fell away, the bird cries vanishing- it seemed as if even the wind were afraid to follow us to the summit. The sun’s rays did not warm us quite so well, and unease fell over our travelling party. By the top of the mountain itself we stumbled across the uncomfortable sight of bones, both human and larger. But more intriguing, the ground was littered with all manner of precious stones and metals- the gleam of the ore was matched by the sparkle of rough diamonds. It was a fortune for the taking, and the fact that none had dared take it was troubling indeed. And we crept ever forward, wary of the beast we knew to be lurking nearby.

“‘Fear not, friends,” Hawke tried to rouse our spirits with a wink and a whisper, “for never forget I have had the privilege of riding atop a dragon, towards the very limit of the firmament. I have soared behind the clouds and the rain- a mere beast will be no match for us.’

“At the edge of the peak itself we peered down over a great valley, scarred by the picks and hammers of miners and encircled by spires that were far sharper and mightier than the one which we had scaled. And below us, in numbers far too great to count, seethed an army of winged serpents, dragon babes still large enough to make off with a Mabari hound should the mood take them.

“Then the sky above us grew dark, and the earth itself was swept up in a great wind. The dust flew at our eyes, and we cried out even as the ground shook as if the mountain itself were crumbling. And before us as our sight cleared was the monstrous outline of a serpent, a dragon so colossal and so vast that my skin crawled and my stomach turned in horror, for this could only be a high dragon itself, those legendary beasts!

“I was inclined myself to run wildly about in frenzied terror, but Hawke was no more afraid than an inquisitive child upon finding a tiny lizard in the garden. In fact I am of the firm opinion that my companion was nothing short of gleeful at the appearance of such a foe. 

“Hawke paused before the talons of the mighty dragon, scarcely high enough to touch the belly of beast. The dragon roared its displeasure, furious that its lair had been intruded upon, and to my great surprise Hawke matched it with a thunderous shout of defiance.

“I was almost convinced that day that my friend meant to leap atop that dragon’s neck and turn it back towards the infinite sky overhead.”


	4. Of Spirits and the Temptation of an Honest Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art provided by cheesiestart.tumblr.com

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ah, my dear friend, I can tell you find my wondrous tales to be so wondrous as to scarce be believable- and I confess! Were I not present for so many of these, I would doubt them myself. But I tell you, with my own eyes I have witnessed these glories and terrors, and I assure you that we have only begun to scratch the surface. There are lands beyond the ken of mortal men, there are creatures that walk among us who possess not a drop of mortal blood, and there are magics so vast and so alien that no mortal will ever wield them and live.

“Sometimes, dear listener, it is possible to stand in the presence of such magic and come away with your soul and your mind intact. Not often! It would not be honest of me to suggest such a thing, to have you dash from the door and out into the world in search of such sorcery. It is a wild and dangerous thing, and not to be approached lightly. I have stood in the presence of such magic only once, in the days when I followed the champion known as Hawke, a powerful warrior whom I have regaled you with tales of in past days.

“There were stories of great spirits that had escaped from the cities of demons and into the world of men, and in the wild swamp forests of Ferelden dwelt the most powerful spirit of all.

“And she was known as Flemeth, formerly Asha’bellanar, the woman of many years in the words of the Dalish. In some lands she still went by such a name, but when I knew her, it was not the name she gave me. She smiled when we called her Witch of the Wilds, and laughed and said that Flemeth was acceptable as a title.

“The stories said she was ancient, older than the rocks of the earth, and the world itself seemed to creak and groan under the fearsome onslaught that was her presence. The colours were not so bright, the sunshine not quite so warm as it had been moments before, the world stale and dull in comparison to her. For she was life and death and magic and power, and she wore a human form. Was it for the sake of our sensibilities, or was it for her own amusement? I suspect we shall not know- at least, I shall not be the one to learn her secrets.

“Hawke, the great Hawke, stood calmly in the face of such frightening power, and did no quiver even when her shape changed yet again, and the witch took to the air as a mighty dragon. Perhaps that was her true form, in the end. 

“But that is a story for another day.”


End file.
